Her house was fifteen minutes from my apartment, tucked in one of those older neighborhoods where the trees arch over the street like they’re trying to protect the porch lights.
Martha opened the door before I even knocked.
She’d changed out of her Sunday best and sash. Today she wore an oversized sweatshirt and soft pants, her hair pulled back with a clip that looked older than me.
But her lipstick was on.
Not perfect—just enough to remind the world she still existed.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside. “Ignore the balloons. I didn’t have the heart to pop them.”
Inside, the air smelled like coffee and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or cinnamon.
There were birthday cards on the counter. Lots of them.
My first thought was Oh good, she has people.
My second thought was the heavy one.
Because all the cards were from places, not people.
“Happy Birthday!” with glossy logos and printed signatures.
A pharmacy. A bank. A clinic. A grocery store.
Every card looked like it had been designed by someone who’d never sat at a table waiting for headlights that never came.
Martha followed my eyes and shrugged like she was used to it.
“They send these when you reach a certain age,” she said. “I call them my ‘corporate grandchildren.’”
I laughed, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too sad.
She patted my arm like she could sense it.
“Coffee’s fresh,” she said. “Sit. Tell me if you take sugar.”
I sat at a small kitchen table covered with a floral cloth. In the middle was the “Happy 80th” centerpiece, still standing like it refused to accept defeat.
Martha poured coffee into two mugs.
Then she slid the tiny note across the table like it was something sacred.
My handwriting looked shaky on that receipt.
Call her more.
Martha held her own mug with both hands, warming her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have read it.”
“It’s fine,” I said quietly. “It’s not exactly a secret.”
She nodded.
And then she did something I didn’t expect.
She reached into a drawer, pulled out a small notepad, and flipped it open.
The pages were full of handwriting.
Reminders.
Appointments.
Grocery lists.
But in between, there were little sentences that didn’t belong on any list.
Don’t ask too much.
Don’t sound lonely.
Wait to see if they call first.
My throat tightened.
Martha saw me looking and gave a small, embarrassed smile.
“I started writing those after Frank died,” she admitted. “At first I thought it was silly. Then it became… a way to keep myself from making the same mistake over and over.”
“What mistake?” I asked, though I already had a guess.
She stared into her coffee.
“Loving people louder than they love you back.”
The words sat between us like a third person.
Outside, a car passed. Somewhere, a dog barked twice.
I didn’t know what to say, so I asked the simplest question in the world.
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